


Winter Song

by mycanonnevercame



Series: The Only Way Out [2]
Category: Daredevil (TV), The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Christmas fic, F/M, Feelings, Fluff, ITS KASTLE CHRISTMAS YALL, physical touch is my love language in case you cant tell, sort of bed sharing?, the sharing of secrets, this fic is basically just an ode to physical touch as a love language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-28
Updated: 2019-12-28
Packaged: 2021-02-19 05:40:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22006039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mycanonnevercame/pseuds/mycanonnevercame
Summary: Karen Page gets exactly what she wants for Christmas.
Relationships: Frank Castle/Karen Page
Series: The Only Way Out [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1584028
Comments: 17
Kudos: 106
Collections: Frank and Karen, kastlechristmas2k19





	Winter Song

**Author's Note:**

> Fic title from Winter Song, one of my all-time favorite Christmas songs! The Leslie Odom, Jr. version is *kisses fingers* that man has the voice of an angel!
> 
> I really wanted to join the kastle gift exchange that kastlenetwork organized over on the tumble, but I wasn’t sure I could reliably finish a fic in time and I didn’t want to disappoint anyone! So this is for the entire kastle fandom, y’all are the best and I hope you all got what you wanted for Christmas (or whatever holiday you celebrate this time of year) 💕

He stays for three days.

She’d hoped he’d stay longer, but she supposes she’ll take what she can get. He’s a surprisingly quiet patient — with the fuss he’d kicked up about the bed when she’d first brought him home, she thought he’d be a pain in the ass. But instead he just sleeps a lot and wraps his arms around her when she’s close (she definitely doesn’t intentionally put herself within arm’s reach as much as possible once she figures that out, nope, no sir).

She doesn’t try to make him talk, and he seems to appreciate it. She figures he’ll do so when he’s ready — he always has in the past.

He’s gone when she gets home from work on Tuesday, and she listens to the silence of her apartment for a long moment, standing just inside the doorway and looking at the place with new eyes. She’s never felt lonely here, before — or at least, no more than she feels anywhere else. But now, the place echoes emptily, and she sighs as she takes off her jacket and tosses her purse on the couch.

He’s moved the roses, and she smiles at them sitting on the island. She still can’t believe the Big Bad Punisher bought her secret-message flowers. Frank Castle has softness inside him, and no one would believe her even if she tried to tell them.

There’s a note by the roses. It only says one word, in Frank’s atrocious scrawl, familiar after so many hours of going over legal paperwork together.

 _After_.

Tears prick her eyes, but she finds herself laughing, her heart swelling with hope. Maybe he won’t stay away so long this time. Something else dawns on her as she notes the proximity of the note to the roses — he’s given her tacit permission to contact him in their usual way. Leave it to Frank to say “call me” in the most obscure way possible.

She somehow refrains from putting the roses on her windowsill for the next week and a half. He’s probably got a lot going on as it is, without her testing the boundaries of — whatever this is, between them. She spends Thanksgiving with Foggy and his enormous family. Between fending off his mother’s attempts to get her to eat more and Marci’s attempts to set her up with a high-powered lawyer, she’s too busy to miss Frank. Or so she tells herself.

When she finally relents and ends her self-imposed ban, it takes all her self-control not to show up an hour early at their bench by the river. She still ends up being ten minutes early, only to find him already leaning against the rail, trigger finger twitching against the cold metal and hoodie pulled up against the early December chill, a dark-clothed shadow against the bright light of day reflecting off the river.

She’s moving quietly, but she must scuff the ground with her boot or make some kind of noise, because he turns around when she’s still several feet away. She hadn’t realized how tense he looked until she watches it melt away, leaving his shoulders loose and an almost tender smile on his face. She finds herself grinning back. He has the neatly-trimmed beginnings of a beard covering his jaw, and it suits him.

“I was starting to think you weren’t gonna reach out,” he admits, eyes darting away from hers to check their surroundings.

“Yeah, well.” She shrugs, turns to lean back against the railing next to him, trying very hard to play it cool. Shoves her hands in her coat pockets so she won’t do anything dumb, like grab him. He’d need a crowbar to pry her loose if she gave into the urge. “Figured you might need a little space.”

He studies her for a moment, eyes dark under his hood. Shakes his head. “Not from you,” he says. It’s her turn to look away, a smile tugging her lips.

“Okay.”

“Okay?” His eyebrow quirks, just a little.

She gives in and grins. “Might help if you gave me your phone number.”

“Yeah, uh.” He looks away over the water, nose scrunching up like it does when he’s being an asshole. “Pete Castiglione doesn’t have a phone, so.”

She blinks at him for a moment before it clicks. “Pete?” She demands, appalled. “You could pick any name in the world and you picked _Pete_?”

He pulls a face somewhere between a smirk and a scowl. “What’s wrong with Pete?”

“Nothing is _wrong_ with it, I just—“ she shrugs. “I like Frank.”

He looks away again, frowning thoughtfully at the city skyline across the river. Clears his throat.

“You wanna, uh, go somewhere?” He asks the water. “Coffee?”

“Sure,” she says. Holds out her hand, which he bypasses to throw an arm around her shoulders.

That might be the most surprising thing she’s learned from all this — that Frank is a toucher. That someone with so much blood on his hands could be so gentle. That he could have pushed her away for so long only to hold onto her so fiercely now.

They go to a diner, already bedecked with garlands in the windows and Christmas trees in every corner and tinsel _everywhere_ , and she can’t help but remember the last time they were in one together. One glance at Frank and she knows he’s thinking about it too, his arm falling from her shoulders, face still as stone — she grabs his hand before he can completely retreat, holds his gaze unflinchingly until the hard edge of guilt leaves his mouth. Their collective past is full of darkness and violence, and she’s almost lost count of the number of times he’s pushed her away, but she’s hoping they’re finally past all that.

They talk for hours, sitting on the same side of the booth with their heads together, voices low as they spill more of their secrets to each other. Not everything, not yet, but she tells him things she’s never spoken out loud before — Wesley, her mother — because she knows that here, at least, she’s safe. Frank has always seen all of her, not just the bright hopeful exterior she shares with the world, but the dark jagged shards of her soul, too. He’s the only person she’s ever known that allows both of those aspects of herself to exist without pigeonholing her into being one or the other.

He tells her about Russo, and about how he and Micro somehow ended up friends in spite of everything, or maybe because of it.

They move to lighter topics: where he’s working (an animal shelter — her heart does funny things at the thought of Frank gently handling all the unwanted dogs and cats), the last book she read (a reread of an old favorite, _Ancillary Justice_ ), which leads to him sharing what he’s been reading.

“Jesus, stop reading such depressing stuff.”

“Curt keeps lending me the classics,” he says, shrugging. “Says they don’t have all the answers, but they can help.”

When they finally get up to go — Frank refuses to let her pay despite her protest — Karen is kind of surprised that it’s still daylight outside. She has no idea how long they’ve been talking, caught in their own safe little bubble.

“Can I take you home?” His voice is quiet, like he’s afraid she’ll hear him, but she just says yes. He slips his hand into hers and leads her to a nearby parking lot. She snorts with laughter when she realizes which vehicle is his.

“Really, Frank? A murder van?”

“Haven’t had a chance to trade it in for something less intimidating.”

“Don’t — it suits you.” He rolls his eyes at her.

They’re quiet on the ride through the city, Wham’s _Last Christmas_ filtering quietly through the speakers.

Frank parks illegally in a nearby alley and walks her to her building. It’s starting to snow, big fluffy flakes that catch in Frank’s dark hair and glitter in the hall lights on her floor.

“Take care of yourself,” she says, pulling him in for a hug.

“When am I gonna see you?” He mumbles in her ear.

“Whenever you want, Frank.”

He smiles against her neck.

Karen has never considered herself a toucher.

Oh, she likes holding hands, and she thinks she’s fairly demonstrative when she’s in a romantic relationship. But she’s never been a cuddler. She’s never been the type to brush her hand down her friend’s arm as she passes by, never leaned on them just because she wants to.

Until Frank.

Because Frank does do all of that stuff. He’s not clingy, but he touches her a lot. Brushes her hair out of her face when they’re arguing about what to order for dinner. Pulls her closer when they sit side by side on the couch. It doesn’t take long for her to start reciprocating — to gently hip check him when he’s being annoying, or link their arms and lean into him when he walks her home from work.

She goes a little overboard with her Christmas decorations this year.

She needs the boost of the holiday cheer. Kevin’s been gone ten years now, and this year seems extra hard without him, and Matt’s death just makes it all that much worse. There was so much left unresolved between her and Matt, and she regrets that they never really worked things out and got back to being friends before he died.

Frank, on the other hand — she thinks they’re really getting somewhere. He’s quit pushing her away, and their growing friendship is the best thing that’s happened to her in years. He helps her decorate her apartment and teases her gently about the amount of tinsel she scatters about. It’s nice to have the company.

He asks about Kevin when she hangs up her brother’s stocking next to her own over the radiator. She didn’t realize how much she missed talking about her brother until she gets the chance to tell stories about the shenanigans the two of them got up to as kids.

She finds herself telling Frank what she did, the whole awful story of that day coming out in the quiet of her apartment.

“It’s been ten years and it doesn’t hurt any less,” she says, impatiently dashing tears out of her eyes. They’re sitting on the floor by the radiator, and she’s about to get up and pace to deal with some of her roiling emotions when Frank pulls her into his lap and wraps his arms around her. They’re quiet for a long time before Frank speaks.

“Is this why?”

“Why... what?” She has no idea what he’s talking about.

“Is this...” He frowns, looks at her and away again. “I keep expecting you to come to your senses and tell me to get lost,” he says. “For years I’ve been expecting it. Tried to do it first a few times so you wouldn’t get the chance. But... it’s never going to happen, is it? Because we’re the same.”

“I can’t believe you only just figured this out,” she says, snuggling deeper into his embrace. “You’re an idiot.” He snorts in amusement, leans into her, closing his eyes. In a few minutes they’ll get up and finish decorating her apartment, but for now they’re content to stay where they are.

She buys him a stocking the next day, and spends way too much time bedazzling his name onto the cuff. Hangs it next to hers over the radiator. If you didn’t know better, looking at the stockings hung in a row, you might think Karen had a family.

And maybe she does.

She calls him on Christmas Eve, drunk at Josie’s because Foggy won his first big case at his new firm. Marci bought way too many rounds of shots and next thing she new Karen could barely stay upright on her stool, let alone get herself home safely. Marci pours Foggy into a cab and tries to get Karen to share with them, but they live in completely the opposite direction and she stubbornly refuses to go along even if it’s the smart thing to do. She pulls out her phone after they’re gone, trying to decide what to do. In the old days, Matt would’ve stayed with her until she was sober enough to walk and then he’d have walked her home. But that was a long time ago — she’s not sure she’d accept his escort now even if he was alive to give it.

She hesitates for a moment over her phone, thumb hovering unsteadily over the name Pete C. — he got a phone a couple days after that first coffee date — while she debates the wisdom of calling him. Well. Debate is a strong word for it — mostly her inner monologue consists of a confused jumble of emotions and drunken logic simultaneously telling her not to bother him and that he’ll get her home safe if she does. She’s not really sure why she’s hesitating, except maybe to protect herself, in case he leaves again. Not that he’s showing any signs of doing so... but still.

Her thumb makes the decision for her, twitching involuntarily to press the call button.

He picks up after two rings. “Karen?” He sounds worried, his voice gravelly and low, like he just woke up, and she instantly regrets calling him.

She grunts an inarticulate response, and there’s a pause on the other end. “You wanna try that again, ma’am?”

“Would you believe me if I told you this phone call was an accident?” She asks, trying not to sound as drunk as she is and failing spectacularly.

“Nope.” He drawls. “Where are you?”

She squints around the bar, looking for clues. Everything is dim and hazy and vaguely dirty. “Josie’s. I think.”

“I’ll be right there, don’t go anywhere.”

“Sir, yessir,” she says, saluting with her free hand. It’s the wrong hand for a salute, not that Frank can see.

She’s not sure how long she waits after he hangs up, but she’s half asleep on the bar when she feels his presence at her shoulder. He leans on the bar next to her, earning a protest from her crowded neighbor that’s quickly cut off by the look Frank gives the guy — pretty impressive considering Josie’s caliber of clientele.

“You alive?” His voice is low and rumbly, like thunder. She cracks an eye open and twists her head around to look at him without sitting up from the bar. He’s wearing his usual hoodie and jeans combo, hood pulled up over a beanie. There’s no way he’s warm enough, no coat or gloves against the frigid snowy night outside. He looks slightly rumpled, like he got dressed in a hurry and grabbed whatever clothing was closest.

He’s trying not to smile at her, dark eyes gleaming with amusement. Rude.

“You pay your tab?” She frowns, trying to remember, but before she can figure it out he flags down Josie to get the answer.

“She’s paid up, Frankie,” the taciturn woman says, and Karen blinks drunkenly to herself. Frank knows Josie. _Josie_ knows _Frank_. She tries to file that information away for future use, but she’s not sure she’ll remember it in the morning.

“Can you stand?” He continues his decidedly one-sided conversation. Karen considers this question for a moment before sitting up and swiveling around to face Frank. She moves slowly and deliberately, hands Frank her purse because there’s no way she’s able to deal with it right now. Watches with interest as he wordlessly takes it and slings it over his head to wear it crossbody. She’s never seen a straight man carry a woman’s purse so nonchalantly. Most guys she knows would have held it awkwardly by the top of the bag rather than run the risk of anyone thinking it was theirs.

She stares at him blankly for a moment. “I can stand,” Karen belatedly answers his question with exaggerated dignity.

Frank holds out his arms in a let’s-get-going-then gesture, so she hops off her stool.

She cannot, as it happens, stand.

Frank catches her when she stumbles right into his chest, and she wraps her arms around his waist, holding on for dear life. He smells good.

“Mm,” she grunts, pressing her face into his neck. He’s shaking with suppressed laughter, and she makes another mental note to be mad at him about it in the morning.

He somehow gets her arm over his shoulders and supports her out to the sidewalk, where she promptly slips on the ice in her heels and almost takes them both down with a shriek.

“Jesus,” he mutters, spitting her hair out of his mouth. “How much did you drink?”

“Yes,” she says breathlessly, and he laughs again, this time out loud, the sound sending warmth all the way from her head to her toes.

“Sweetheart, you’re hammered,” he says, voice warm with amusement.

It’s pitch black when she wakes up. She lies there for a few minutes, hoping to fall back asleep, but no luck — for some reason she can never sleep more than a few hours after a night of drinking. Eventually she decides she might as well get up and go to the bathroom.

She’s halfway across the room when she trips over something warm and solid. Something that swears in a familiar tone.

“Frank? What the hell are you doing on my bedroom floor?”

“I _was_ sleeping,” he grumbles. “Why are you kicking your innocent houseguest?”

By then Karen has managed to find the light switch, flooding the room with dim light — there’s a bulb out, which she hasn’t gotten around to replacing.

“Okay but seriously, why are you sleeping on the floor? Fully clothed? You can’t be comfortable.”

He shrugs. “You asked me to stay.”

“I would never ask you to sleep on the floor.” She’s offended by the very notion.

“That part was my idea,” he admits.

“I thought we were past the whole bed argument,” Karen says, trying to remember if she said anything embarrassing in her inebriated state. It’s all a bit of a blur. She covers her mild distress by grabbing Frank’s hand and hauling him to his feet.

“Didn’t seem right,” he mutters, and she rolls her eyes.

“You didn’t have to stay,” she says. “You shouldn’t have let drunk Karen bully you into it.”

He’s not looking at her. “You said, uh.” He clears his throat. “You said no one should wake up alone on Christmas.”

“Oh.”

“I can go—“ he starts.

“No!”

His eyebrows go up at her vehemence, but he smiles.

“I want you to stay,” Karen says. She turns to rummage in a drawer, hands him some plaid flannel pajama pants. “But you can’t sleep on the floor on Christmas, either. Do you want a shirt?” He shakes his head, gingerly takes the pajamas from her. “I’m going to brush my teeth, I’ll be right back.”

She disappears to the bathroom for a few minutes. She washes her face and brushes her teeth and relieves herself. When she comes out again, Frank is already in bed. He’s put a glass of water and a small pile of ibuprofen on her bedside table.

“Thanks,” she says, tossing back the pills and half the glass of water and crawling into bed next to Frank.

They both lie there for a few long moments before Frank reaches out to pull her closer at the same time Karen scoots over to curl against him, giggling because they’re on the same page as usual. He presses a kiss to her hair, and maybe that’s what gives her the courage to say it.

“Frank?” She whispers. He hums sleepily, and she pushes up onto an elbow so she can look at him. Waits until he opens his eyes. “I love you.” His eyes go wide as he sucks in a breath.

“Karen,” he breathes, smoothing her hair back from her face. When he kisses her, it’s soft and tentative, and he pulls back too soon, and she whines in protest.

“I love you, too,” he says, grinning. This time, when his lips meet hers, there’s nothing tentative about it.

He makes coffee in the morning, black, “like my redacted military record,” he jokes. He starts digging in her cabinet for a mug, but she hands him his Christmas present instead. He unwraps it to reveal a black mug that says “menace to society” on it in red block letters. He snorts and kisses her cheek before scooping a similarly-sized present from under her tree and handing it to her. She opens the box to find a red mug that says “the pen is mightier” in black script.

“Great minds,” she says, laughing.

“Merry Christmas, Karen.”

“Merry Christmas, Frank.”

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me on tumblr dot com, my main blog is myletternevercame and my kastle/Punisher/Jon Bernthal fanblog is lovemymurderboifrank!


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